


Got to Give It Up

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, allusions to flommy in the past, allusions to laurel/oliver in the past, allusions to oliver/sara in the past, but it's all good now, miserable strangers at a wedding AU, tangled sexual web, though maybe some feelings, vague allusions to smoaking canary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 20:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3783862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  It's a tangled sexual web Felicity and Oliver weave, when... they meet at Tommy & Laurel's wedding. AKA, the <i>miserable strangers meet at a wedding AU</i> written for youguysimserious and thelockpickingvictorian. Now with a whole chapter of smuttiness for mersayseh. Smut warning: please read responsibly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Felicity is in her cups, okay?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [closer2fine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/closer2fine/gifts), [FanMomMer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FanMomMer/gifts), [thelockpickingvictorian](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=thelockpickingvictorian).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1: Felicity has had plenty of time to get good and tipsy at the bar. Where she is now. Tipsy. And kind of giggling a little. Because she’s at the wedding of her one-time one night stand as the date of his now-sister-in-law, and what _even_ is her life? Prompt response for youguysimserious and thelockpickingvictorian.

Felicity is well into her cups by the time the cocktail hour is over at Tommy and Laurel’s wedding.

She is confident that she deserves to take full advantage of the open bar, after deciding to show up against her better judgment. She should _not_ be here. 

Not that she was embarrassed or anything -- after all, a tipsy one-night stand between two consenting (and _supposedly_ unattached) adults is nothing to be ashamed of -- but she did feel a little strange attending the wedding of the man who’d kind of rocked her world a little bit? 

At the very least it made congratulating the bride a _little_ awkward, but thankfully, Felicity had managed to reign in her typical babbling, feeling Tommy’s worried gaze on her the entire time she spoke to Laurel.

So, all of like fifteen seconds.

Because Felicity didn’t know Laurel, but she _was_ good friends with Laurel’s sister, Sara. She was actually, technically Sara’s date. Because Sara and her girlfriend broke up, like, two weeks ago, and Sara was _not_ emotionally prepared to go to her sister’s wedding single. Felicity had happily agreed -- Sara _was_ pretty hot, after all, and they’d messed around a few times. 

But as soon as Tommy and Laurel were pronounced husband and wife (and _not_ , Felicity noted appreciatively, _man_ and wife), Sara had a lot of family-related obligations to take care of -- pictures and all of that wedding stuff. So Felicity has had plenty of time to get good and tipsy at the bar. Where she is now. Tipsy. And kind of giggling a little. Because she’s at the wedding of her one-time one night stand as the date of his now-sister-in-law, and what _even_ is her life?

When she hears a low chuckle beside her, she straightens up and really _really_ hopes she didn’t say any of that out loud. And says, “I hope I didn’t say any of that out loud.” Because, yeah, she’s _in her cups_ , okay?

She turns reluctantly, not super-into the idea of defending her presence to someone who finds the tortured backstory amusing.

Except that the man leaning against the bar, like, a foot away from her has a genuinely amused smirk going on that is, yeah, strangely attractive? And _holy shit_ , that’s Oliver Queen. Possibly the only person here with a more fucked up relationship to the wedding party.

And then Oliver Queen is smiling at her, like a wide real full-on sunbeam from the skies kind of smile. He holds out a hand for her to shake. “Oliver Queen,” he says, his tone dry, “best man, and also ex-boyfriend of the bride, who I cheated on with her sister.”

They are _terrible_ people, sitting here swapping “I slept with this member of the wedding party” stories. But also? He slept with Sara, and she’s made out with Sara, and that’s just a really strange conversation starter. 

But Felicity is grinning at him, and her hand fits very nicely in his when she responds, “Felicity Smoak, just regular guest, but I slept with Tommy when I moved to Starling, and also I’m here with Sara. So!”

Oliver’s bright smile dims just a bit. “I thought Sara’s girlfriend was--?”

“Oh, no, yeah, I’m not her _girlfriend_ ,” Felicity explains quickly. And then rushes on, “I mean, she’s gorgeous and a really good kisser? But we’re actually friends. You’re thinking of Nyssa. She and Nyssa broke up.” 

Oliver’s eyebrows jump up. “So you and Sara are friends who kiss?”

Felicity would probably be flushing without the fortification of the wine. Instead, she just shrugs. “I mean, occasionally, sure. But I’m not her girlfriend. I mean, we’re not _dating_.” And why is she trying to clarify her total lack of a significant other to the once and future playboy king of Starling? 

His eyes are sparkling as he grins at her. “Once and future playboy king?” he repeats.

Felicity drops her head onto her forearms, slumping against the bar. “Why do I even say words?” And then she pushes herself upright, fixing him with a glare. “And aren’t _you_ and Sara also friends who kiss?”

“Once upon a time,” he agrees, with an arched eyebrow that is, like, stupidly sexy. “But these days we’re friends.”

“Who don’t kiss,” Felicity surmises with a nod. She waves her hand in the space between them. “There is a lot of complicated sexual history here.”

Oliver’s grin is so, so dirty when he shoots back, “Particularly for two people who have never had sex with each other.”

And Felicity understands on, like, a spiritual level, how Oliver Queen got hundreds of super-willing women into his bed. Goddamn. “Mmmm,” is all she can manage in response.

“Can I get you another drink?” Oliver asks, laughter still very clear in his voice.

“I should maybe slow down,” Felicity admits. “I was _not_ really enjoying standing awkwardly around by myself, so I hit the open bar _hard_.”

Oliver nods. “I’ve been at the mandatory photo session. You want a water while I try to catch up?”

Felicity feels a warmth in her chest that has nothing to do with all the Cabernet Sauvignon she knocked back, and everything to do with the stupidly attractive man beside her. And when did he move all close to her, anyway, she wonders, having to tilt her head back a little to meet his gaze. Then she grins at him. “By all means.” She can _hear_ the unrepentantly flirty tone in her voice, but can’t seem to make herself quit it.

Oliver flags down the bartender, and then there’s a tall glass of water with a thin red straw in front of her. She takes a few sips while Oliver drains a Scotch and orders another. She holds the straw between her lips and watches him over the rim of her glass. 

He catches her eye and shifts, leaning one elbow against the bar just beside her bar stool. “So, Felicity, you’re not dating Sara.”

“Nope,” she answers, then chases the straw around a little with her tongue, because -- _in her cups_. She doesn’t miss the way Oliver’s gaze gets all hot and focused on her mouth. Felicity swallows hard. “Free agent,” she says. Then she frowns. “I mean, I am here with Sara, so it would be _rude_ to--”

But then Oliver is kissing her, and it’s unexpected, but also fucking amazing? Felicity abandons her water glass on the bar and loops an arm around his neck, pulling him closer. His lips are insistent and confident and also soft, and his stubble is doing really itchy but really great things for her? 

Somehow, she’s leaned into him, and her breasts are pressed flat against his -- hello -- like, _super_ firm chest and she’s more turned on than she should be for the situation. For making out with a renowned playboy in public. But, damn, it’s good. 

It’s _really_ good. Like, dizzyingly good. Mind-bendingly good. And from the way his fingers are digging into her hips, she thinks maybe it’s not just her feeling this way.

Way too soon, he’s breaking away from her and standing up straight, his breath a little unsteady as he looks down at her with a dark intensity. 

“Wow,” she says, and then blushes. Because -- get a _grip_ , Felicity.

But Oliver seems charmed -- his arms are still loosely around her waist, his thumb rubbing circles on her spine. And he reaches for his new Scotch without looking away from her. Just before he brings the glass to his lips, he says, “I was having a pretty shitty time at this wedding.”

Felicity’s attention is drawn to the way his throat works as he drains the glass. She really, _really_ wants to lean forward and-- 

“Felicity.”

She jerks her gaze back to his. “Huh?”

“We have to stay for dinner. We can’t leave yet,” Oliver tells her, and he sounds honestly regretful.

Felicity nods, ignoring the wave of disappointment she feels. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She turns away, taking a long pull of water through the straw. When she straightens, she reaches up and uses the edge of her thumb to brush away a droplet of water on her lip.

“Jesus,” Oliver whispers in her ear. “You have to stop that if you expect me to make it through dinner before we leave.”

Belatedly, Felicity hears the _we_ in that sentence. “Oh.”

He grins at her. “Yeah. That okay?”

Felicity watches him carefully. Because these kinds of things don’t happen to her very often. “You said _we_. That _we_ would leave.”

He nods. “I did.”

“You want to go home with me.” Why is she still talking? Why are these words coming out of her mouth? Because _obviously_ that’s what he means, and playing Twenty Questions of Do You Want to Fuck Me, is a great way to make him reevaluate his life choices.

But Oliver leans so, so close, until she can smell the vaguely pine-y scene of his aftershave. So close that she can feel his hot breath against her lips when he answers. “Badly. I want _badly_ to go home with you, Felicity.”

She wants to point out that they just met, and that they’re both here under very complicated circumstances that may lead to poor decision-making. But more than that? Like _way_ more? 

She wants Oliver naked and in her bed. Like, as soon as possible. 

He seems a little startled when she drops from the barstool onto her feet and looks around. “What’s wrong?” he asks.

“When the hell is dinner?” she demands.

And Oliver is laughing and pulling her into his side. “I thought this wedding was gonna suck,” he says into her hair, “but you’ve turned that around.”

END CHAPTER ONE


	2. Felicity & Oliver are terrible at sneaking out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2: Felicity is pretty sure she’s totally right to feel self-conscious about this. Because she’s sneaking out of a wedding she came to with her friend to go have sex with said friend’s kind of ex? Who is also the best man, and the ex-boyfriend of the bride. Who is Felicity’s date’s sister.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy super-late birthday, mersayseh! :) Massive thanks to youguysimserious for betaing.

Felicity is pretty sure she’s totally right to feel self-conscious about this.

Because she’s sneaking out of a wedding she came to with her friend to go have sex with said friend’s kind of ex? Who is also the best man, _and_ the ex-boyfriend of the bride. Who is Felicity’s date’s sister.

It’s -- really, it’s a lot.

It should turn her off of this whole thing, but instead, Felicity has her hand in Oliver’s and they’re trying to very nonchalantly exit the large ballroom hosting Laurel and Tommy’s reception. The problem is that Oliver is leading her in a semi-circuitous route among the big round tables toward the exit -- between the tables where all of the _other_ guests are still finishing up their dinners. 

Unlike she and Oliver, who’d sat nearly pressed together at her table -- Oliver wedged an extra chair in there so he wouldn’t have to leave her side -- and managed to eat some of their food. Probably. Felicity honestly doesn’t really remember what she ate, because Oliver’s palm had been on her thigh, his fingers circling gently, until she’d tossed her fork onto her plate with a clatter and said, “I’m done.”

At which point, he’d all but jumped to his feet and hauled her behind him. His eagerness is making her feel hot and cold all over, even as the reasonable voice in the back of her head protests that they’re still leaving too soon. 

And too _obviously_.

Not that Oliver appears to be one for subtlety. Felicity grips her little clutch tighter in her free hand and protests, “They haven’t served dessert yet.” Because _he’s_ the one who said they needed to stay for dinner. If they’d left straight from the bar, they would have just been conveniently missing. Not _conspicuously leaving in the middle of dinner to go have sex_.

And then she nearly collides with Oliver, because he stopped and turned and she’s really pretty sure at least half of the people in this ballroom are watching them curiously, but all she can see is his intense blue eyes as he leans impossibly closer. “I’m gonna need to eat my dessert in private,” he says, low and throaty and his breath whispers across her neck and she may have just had a little orgasm? Just from his voice and his implication?

She _knows_ she’s blushing, but all she can do is nod, because -- HOLY SHIT, YES, PLEASE.

Oliver turns back toward the exit, her hand still trapped in his, and starts moving.

They’ve nearly reached the door, but Felicity makes the huge, massive, unforgivable tactical error of glancing at the head table. As she suspected, their trek through the ballroom has not gone unnoticed by the bride and groom. Tommy and Laurel are both watching them. Felicity nearly trips at the realization, and tells herself to stop, be an adult and go sit back down, be bored for a couple hours with small talk, and _then_ have sex.

But she doesn’t stop moving.

Laurel looks somewhere between amused and exasperated, with just a flash of melancholy, while Tommy gives Felicity a sardonic grin and a jaunty salute with his champagne glass. Felicity’s blush deepens -- because he’d once smirked at her just like that after she dissolved into a giddy, babbling mess under his mouth -- but she lifts her free hand to manage a dorky little wave.

Thankfully, they’re at the doors, _finally_ as soon as they spill out into the lobby and are (really only _mostly_ ) out of sight of the wedding guests, Oliver turns and pushes her back up against the wall. He kisses her again -- one of those crazy hot kisses that make her forget where she is and just ache to climb him like a tree.

Oliver pulls back just enough to ask, “How far is your place?”

Felicity tries to bring her brain back online, but it’s a struggle. “Uh...” She’s got the lapels of his really nice tux -- which is probably not a rental, which means she should probably not ruin it -- crumpled into her fists, and she keeps herself flush against him. Against his really firm chest.

She is so not regretting her decision to go parading out of the reception all but trailing an ABOUT TO BREAK ME OFF SOME OF THIS banner, because _damn_.

Oliver has one hand at the nape of her neck and the other low, low, low on her back, and she can feel the heat from his touch on every inch of her skin. As she blinks up at him, he presses her hips into him and -- oh. He’s certainly ready for all the sex they’re going to have. _Excellent_. Though now it’s even harder for her to focus on what he’s asking. She blinks at him. “Why?”

“Because we’re at a hotel,” Oliver says, casting a meaningful glance towards the elevators. “There are rooms here. With beds. Really nearby.” 

The idea is so, so tempting, but Felicity shakes her head. “Not walking out of here tomorrow in this dress.” Not with Tommy and Laurel and all the out-of-town wedding guests meandering around. It’s bad enough they probably already know exactly why she and Oliver left in the middle of dinner -- they don’t need proof.

Oliver’s hand dips lower, fingers pressing against the swell of her ass. “I’ll buy you clothes,” he murmurs, dipping his head back down to kiss her once, and again. “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

She smirks against his lips.. “I don’t have condoms in this tiny evening bag, so unless you want to get a hotel room to cuddle--”

“Your place,” Oliver agrees swiftly, lifting his head up and gazing at her, a stupidly sexy half-smile on his face. “Best idea. Let’s _go_.”

It’s really hard to persuade her hands to release their death grip on his tuxedo. But she manages -- then pauses to smooth the wrinkles she left. Just fixing his clothes. Only reason she’s running her hands down his chest. And if her fingers drift a little lower, it’s not really her fault. His jacket is unbuttoned, and the crisp, thin material of his white dress shirt is practically begging for her touch. And he has what she’s pretty sure is a six pack underneath, and then both of his hands are on her ass tugging her up onto her tiptoes and against his chest. Her hands slide under his jacket and get stuck in his suspenders, before slipping around to his back. She digs her fingers into his flesh and he groans against her mouth and they are _never_ leaving this lobby.

She’s _panting_ and all he’s doing is staring at her, his face inches away, his gaze hot and blue and intense.

Then Oliver wrenches himself away, and she whimpers. Like, actually _whimpers_ , which would be kind of humiliating if not for two things: the desperate look on Oliver’s face, and the fact that Sara is standing a few feet away, smirking at them, which is, as it turns out, _much_ more humiliating.

“Oh!” Felicity yelps, pushing Oliver away with her palms on that stupid hard chest of his. But he’s still holding her _by the ass_ , and his erection is pushing insistently against her belly, and Sara is her date and his ex- _something_ , and this is going so badly. “Sara,” she says, giving Oliver a look, which he blithely ignores.

Instead, he glances over his shoulder at Sara and smiles, “Hope you’re okay with me stealing your date. She’s kind of irresistible.” He punctuates that statement with a gentle squeeze, and Felicity can feel the heat of her blush spreading across her cheeks.

Sara saunters closer, and Felicity tries _very_ hard to clamp down on the torrent of words she can feel bubbling up. “I’m being a terrible friend right now. This was not the plan at all. But, I mean, _look_ at him -- or, well, you’ve actually slept with him, so you clearly understand his appeal. But maybe that makes this super weird for you? I really hope you’re not mad at me for sneaking out but I--”

“That was the least sneaky exit I’ve ever seen,” Sara interjects, grinning. 

“--had, like, _at least_ four drinks, and I was having a really shitty time -- oh!” Felicity winces, “that’s awful, I didn’t mean-- Just-- While you were busy, only. Before you had family stuff, I was having a good time. With you. And if you need me to stay, I will--”

“She will not,” Oliver interrupts. He’s talking to Sara, but grinning down at Felicity. And his hands are _still_ on her ass. Which she should really be more upset about, because they’re having a conversation with Sara. But his touch just seems to _do_ something to Felicity.

Sara is chuckling as she reaches out to lay a hand on each of their shoulders. “By all means, go have some great sex.”

Felicity steals a glance at Oliver, one eyebrow raised in contemplation. Great sex, huh? Sara would know. But-- “Are you sure?” Felicity asks, wincing in anticipation. “Is this weird for you?”

“Felicity,” Oliver says, his tone soft and sweet and, wow, when she looks up at him he leans down to rest his forehead against hers and she forgets what she was even talking about.

Sara pats her shoulder then steps back. “Really. Go. You got me through the awkward part of the day. Me and my friend Jack Daniels can take it from here.”

Felicity wills herself to be sober and not lust-addled for a moment, so she can confirm that Sara isn’t just saying all of this while actually wishing she’d stay. She meets her friends gaze and they have a quick, silent conversation, until Felicity grins and blushes and nods. “Thanks.”

When Felicity moves towards Sara, Oliver straightens, but he doesn’t let go of her, even as she half-turns in his arms to give Sara a quick, fierce hug. Oliver’s forearm is trapped between the two women, pressing low against Felicity’s belly, which is entirely too distracting. 

Sara pulls back, then presses the faintest of kisses on Felicity’s cheek. “Really,” she says, “Thanks for coming with me. If I’d known you two would spontaneously combust like this, I’d have introduced you sooner.”

Felicity flushes and steals a glance at Oliver, who’s smiling at Sara. “Thanks,” he says, his tone weirdly solemn. “Really.”

“Now _please_ go get a cab and stop dry-humping against a wall,” Sara admonishes, taking two steps backwards before turning to head back into the reception.

Felicity can feel an incredibly hot flush on her cheeks as she glances around at the lobby. There are definitely people keeping a wary eye on them. Which means that an entire wedding reception plus a couple dozen total strangers are perfectly up to date on her sex life. Or _impending_ sex life. Great.

“Felicity?” Oliver says. When she looks at him in question, he leans down and kisses her, soft and slow and reassuring. And Felicity loops her arms around his neck and kisses him back until she starts to laugh. He pulls back, grinning even in his confusion. “What?”

“As much fun as I’m having dry-humping you in a hotel lobby,” she says, trailing her hands down his arms. “I want you out of that tux,” she takes a half step away and he drops his hands from her hips. She pauses, leaning up to get her mouth near his ear, “and inside of me.”

Oliver makes a really gratifying choking noise, and she can’t stop herself from grinning as she slips past him and heads for the door. She only makes it two steps before he’s right behind her, his hands on her hips holding her close even if he has to walk kind of awkwardly to keep from tripping over her. It’s like he just can’t get enough of touching her. 

Or maybe he just needs her to help hide his erection.

She brings a nervous hand up to her face -- because is this really happening? -- then drops it back down, reaching for the door. Oliver’s long arm pushes it open, holding it as he ushers her through. They emerge into the warm spring air and Oliver flips a hand in the air. “Taxi,” he calls.

The bellhop nods and whistles for the cab, and in the thirty seconds it takes for the car to pull up beside them at the curb, Oliver bands his arms around her ribs, pulling her back flat against his chest, and then presses kisses into the side of her neck. She shivers and pulls away, sliding into the taxi and rattling off her address. Oliver climbs in beside her, slams the door shut, and hauls her back to the center of the seat. She grins up at him. “Impatient.”

“Fuck, yes,” he agrees, half-turning in the seat so he can kiss her some more. And they are really kind of excellent at this. So excellent, she almost forgets all about the cabbie taking long, slightly lascivious glances at them in his rearview mirror.

Felicity’s hand is in Oliver’s hair, the other grasping his suspenders to tug him even closer. She’s so lost in him, in the hot slide of his mouth against hers, in the heat suffusing her entire body, that she nearly misses the weight of his palm on her leg, slipping beneath the hem of her dress. His fingers dance along her inner thigh, and she has to lean her head back to try to catch her breath.

His touch is crazy -- hot and reverent and perfect. She’s trembling beneath his fingertips, and he’s barely touching her. Her thighs shift restlessly, and then she presses them together, trapping his hand inches from where she so desperately wants his touch. They’re both breathing hard, panting into each others mouths, but unable to stop kissing, stop pressing against each other.

Felicity’s 95% sure the only reason she’s still wearing panties is that Oliver noticed the cab driver’s interest. She’s _almost_ so caught up in him that she doesn’t care about the audience. 

Thankfully, they reach her building while they’re still under some semblance of control. 

Oliver lets go of her long enough to dig a $50 from his wallet and toss it into the front seat. Felicity steps out onto the curb, giving herself props for not being even a little unsteady on her feet, despite all of that backseat hotness. Then Oliver slides out of the taxi, and he’s got one hand on her waist as soon as he’s upright, and there goes her cool, calm, unaffected demeanor.

Because the way he keeps touching her -- it’s a lot. It feels like _more_ that just sexual desperation, somehow. Felicity turns halfway to her door and kisses him, her hands on his biceps. They stand there, lost in each other. Felicity’s had her fair share of no-strings sex, and, yes, she just met Oliver a couple hours ago,and, _yes_ , he used to have quite the reputation, but... she can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to him than what she’d read in the tabloids. More to this connection she feels. 

Which is ridiculous, and she tries to push that aside and focus on the man kissing her senseless. Not like it’s hard to concentrate on the feel of him against her.

“Felicity,” he murmurs against her lips, “you’re incredible.” His hands drift lower, and she’s grinning even before he adds, “And your ass is incredible.” He’s had his hands on her ass a significant portion of the time they’ve been kissing, so she’s not surprised by his declaration.

Felicity presses open-mouthed kisses down the line of his throat and grabs his ass at the same time. “You’re not so bad yourself,” she says, then sucks hard at the junction of his throat and shoulder.

Oliver chokes, his fingers digging into her flesh. “Inside,” he says, and he’s almost begging. 

Felicity makes herself pull back, and for a moment, they stand there in the glow of the streetlight and just look at each other. 

Oliver’s gaze drops away, just for a second, and he takes a breath. “Felicity,” he says, his voice low and warm and somehow serious. “What you said before -- I’m not that guy.”

Suddenly confused and a little panicky, Felicity blinks. Because he just wanted inside -- her apartment, and _her_ \-- and now he was, what? Backing out? She makes herself nod, “Oh. Okay. I mean, we don’t--”

“No, no, no,” Oliver interrupts, and he’s got his arms around her again, suddenly, crushing her to his chest. Then he leans down, kissing her gently. “I just don’t want you to think I’m that callous, selfish kid I used to be.” He shrugs, clearly struggling for words. 

Felicity wants to help, but she is honestly confused. “Oliver…”

“I don’t,” he says slowly, “I don’t _use_ women. I just didn’t want you to think this was... _cavalier_ for me.”

She nods slowly. “Okay,” she says, and she wonders if she’s supposed to say something back. Something about how she knows it’s stupid but she’s feeling all these feelings that have little to do with the blistering lust he brings out of her. But for someone who’s usually really, really good with words, she can’t seem to explain. Instead, she brings her hands up to his cheeks, soothing along his scruff, and says, “I understand.” She takes a deep breath and adds, “It doesn’t feel _cavalier_ for me, either.” 

It’s as close as she can bring herself to what she wants to say, but any concern that he’ll misunderstand her melts away at his reaction. The furrow in his brow, the tense set of his lips -- everything indicating his apprehension just smooths away and then he’s beaming down at her. “Okay,” he repeats her answer, nodding. “Good, then.”

The tightness in her chest eases, and Felicity flings her arms around his neck, hugging him tight. He feels _so good_ against her, all hard angles and coiled strength. The confirmation that they both feel at least _something_ more than pure lust actually kicked arousal up about fifteen notches. She is desperate for his touch, for pressure, for friction, for his naked skin under her fingers, so she whispers against his ear, “Oliver, I need you to come inside now.”

He groans, and just like that, his hands are on her ass, which is _definitely_ a thing with him. He crouches a bit for leverage, and then lifts her, and thank God she wore the magenta dress with the loose skirt. Felicity is laughing, her legs wrapped firmly around his waist, not even caring that they’re adding her neighbors to the entirely too large list of people who are fully aware Felicity is about to have sex with Oliver. 

When they reach her door -- which she has to stop kissing him long enough to point out -- Oliver reluctantly lets her down. Slowly.. So she slides along his hard body until her toes touch the ground. She’s pretty sure she’s actually vibrating with lust at this point. From the desperate way he clutches her to him, she’s fairly confident he’s at his breaking point, too.

Her hands are shaking as she unlocks the door, and then they’re inside, and she doesn’t bother with the lights, just tosses her clutch and her keys in the general direction of the side table. “Bedroom,” she manages, keeping him at least six inches away from her with the palm of her hand on his abdomen. She can feel his muscles clench beneath her hand, and it takes everything in her to keep from reaching for his fly. “Condoms,” she says, hooking a thumb vaguely towards her bedroom.

Oliver jerks a nod, then he’s kissing her again, his hands bold and warm on her body -- everywhere he can reach, cupping her breast, skimming her thighs under her skirt. It’s making it very hard to walk, but they stumble down the short hallway. 

Felicity grabs his suspenders, guiding his movements by pulling on one side or the other, until he breaks the kiss with a laugh. “Are you using my suspenders as _reins_?”

She smirks up at him, looking pointedly over his shoulder at the bedroom door behind him. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Shaking his head slightly, Oliver shrugs out of his tuxedo jacket, and stands there in his crisp white dress shirt, black tie, black suspenders, black pants, and Felicity’s mouth is actually, seriously _watering_ at the sight. She needs her mouth on him. 

Then he quirks an eyebrow at her and says, “Where do you want me?”

And, _God_ , her entire body clenches in reaction. He’s not fair.

Oliver is grinning at her and backing towards the bed, holding onto her with a single hand in hers, and she has the most insane urge to pinch herself. This is _ridiculous_. _He’s_ ridiculous. 

Felicity follows eagerly, kicking her heels off when she reaches the side of her bed. He watches her shoes settle against the wall with a hint of sadness, and she files _that_ away for next time. When she leans up to kiss him, she has to push up on her tiptoes, because he’s so much taller when she doesn’t have an artificial 4 inches of height.

This kiss is slow and wet, his tongue stroking hers until she moans. He straightens, and when he says, “Turn around,” his voice is low and grumbly.

She complies with a shiver, and before he begins to undress her, he steps closer, pressing his chest to her back. She can’t help but rock her hips back into him, and his hands clamp down on her waist as he meets her with a suggestive thrust. 

When he steps back, she whimpers, but his fingers are on her arms, tracing slow, light, lazy patterns down her skin. It’s torture -- she wants pressure and firm touches, and he’s not giving it to her. Then his hot mouth is on her neck, his nose pushing her hair aside so he can suck and lick her skin. 

Felicity arches back, tilting her head to the side. He keeps it up -- hands slow and soft against her skin while he sucks hickeys along her neck and shoulders -- for entirely too long. Just when she’s about to tear her own dress off so he’ll _get to it_ , his hands are at the zipper, pulling it down, his mouth and tongue tracing the skin of her back as it’s revealed. She shrugs her shoulders free, lets the dress fall where it may, leaving her in a reasonably sexy purple bra and panty set. 

Oliver grunts and his hands are on her ass, squeezing her cheeks. When she feels his mouth on her lower back, she whimpers. Turning slightly, she leans forward, her palms on the mattress. Her eyes fall shut, her attention riveted by the play of his tongue and lips along the edge of her boyshorts.

“Felicity,” he says, his lips grazing her skin, and his voice is _wrecked_.

She turns her head, and he turns wide, desperate eyes to her. She manages a grin. “You want to fuck me from behind, huh?” she asks. His grip on her ass tightens in response, and she nods. “Condoms,” she says. “Right there.”

He releases her, fumbling through the nightstand until he comes up with a foil packet. When she has his full attention again, she wriggles her ass, just a little, and his mouth falls open as he grabs her panties and pulls them down with more speed than finesse.

Felicity crawls onto the bed, pausing on her hands and knees and looking back at him. She’s still got her bra on, but she would still feel a little exposed waiting like this if Oliver didn’t look so addled at the sight of her. He’s practically gaping at her, his hands dangling at his sides, and he’s _still_ fully dressed.

And then it’s like he snaps. 

Oliver twists out of the suspenders, opens his fly and lets his pants drop. The white shirt is still in the way, but he just rips open the bottom few buttons and then pushes down his boxer briefs, climbing onto the bed behind her, one hand on his cock, the other reaching for her hip. “Felicity,” he says, sliding his fingers down, slipping through her wetness and searching out her clit. She pushes her hips back in little thrusts, her eyes falling shut. “Felicity, please.”

She looks back at him, nodding. “Oliver, I need you. Now.”

He gets the condom on with shaking fingers, and then he’s pressing against her, and sliding inside. She’s so turned on that she presses back against him, needing him deep. Instead of moving, he folds himself over her, one hand landing beside hers on the mattress, the other sliding to her breast. “Felicity,” he groans.

When she looks at him, he kisses her -- teeth and tongue, messy and wet. Her hair’s half in the way, and she doesn’t _care_. He rolls her nipple, squeezes her breast, slips his hand down her abdomen to her clit and he’s _still_ just kissing her, buried deep and _not moving_. She _needs_ him to move, and she circles her hips, groaning into his mouth, the soft cotton of his shirt skimming along her back. 

Oliver pushes himself back upright and thrusts once, gauging her reaction. When she exhales with a happy hum, he sets a fast pace, his palms sliding between her hips and her ass. “You’re so fucking hot,” he tells her, panting with his exertion. “You look amazing, your ass--” He stops, groans as she squeezes him tight. “Felicity,” he gasps.

Palms braced on the mattress, she lets her head drop, too focused on the sensations he’s bringing out of her to concentrate on anything else. She arches her back, tilting her hips up, and then he’s hitting her perfectly on each stroke. Her orgasm is building, one tick closer each time he pushes into her. “Oliver,” she manages.

His fingers slip around her hip, finding her clit and rolling it in firm, imprecise circles, and turns out that’s all she needs to fly apart. Her orgasm rolls through her, and she yells something, and shakes and stutters and feels the bliss all the way down to her toes. 

When she starts to come back down, she realizes she’s collapsed onto her forearms, her cheek against the back of her hand. Oliver is still rock hard and moving inside her, but slower strokes as he eases her through her orgasm. His hands are on her waist to hold her steady, so big against her body that his fingers brush her bra strap. 

She feels amazing, happy and sated and still turned on, and something else she doesn’t try to identify hits her. Felicity pushes up to her hands, then straightens, groaning at the way he feels inside her when she shifts positions. She leans her back against his sweaty chest, reaching back to grip his thighs. 

“You’re fucking amazing,” he says, turning her chin and kissing her, sloppy and desperate. When her tongue slides into his mouth, he thrusts up into her, his free hand splayed against her abdomen. 

“You feel so good,” she pants, and despite her mind-blowing orgasm a minute ago, she feels her arousal spark. What is it about him that reduces her to a lust-addled mess?

Oliver laughs, his breath hot against her cheek. “It’s not me, it’s _you_.” Then he groans and pulls out of her, running his hands along her torso. He unclasps her bra and she lets go of him long enough to toss it aside. “Turn around?” he requests.

She does, a little awkwardly, but then they’re kneeling on her bed, facing each other, and he’s _looking_ at her with all of this... _something_ in his eyes. Felicity leans up to kiss him, her hands working on the buttons of his shirt. 

Oliver’s hands are on her shoulders, soothing, and he breaks the kiss to lean his forehead on hers. “Felicity, while I was...” he hesitates, his mouth twisting a little, “ _away_ ,” he says, “a lot happened.”

Her hands still on his shirt, because she has no idea where he’s going with this. “Okay,” she says, her tone hesitant.

“There’s--” he says, shaking his head a bit. “There are scars. I just don’t want you to be surprised.”

Her heart turns over at that, and she leans up to kiss him, her hands easing this shirt off, leaving him as naked as she is. She smooths her palms over his chest, learning his body which is -- if feel is anything to go by -- as _ridiculous_ as she’d been imagining. But she doen’t look. Doesn’t gawk. 

She can feel the uneven patches, the smoothness of scar tissues beneath her fingers, and she wonders how he survived. When her hands sweep around to his back, there are more scars, and she wants to cry for him. But this isn’t the time, and she knows from how hesitantly he told her that he does not want to focus on that.

Felicity breaks the kiss, staring up at him, and she can _see_ the anxiety in his eyes. She’s not sure she’s doing the right thing, but she leans down, catching sight of a dark tattoo, some light pink scars, and presses an open-mouthed kiss to his sternum. Right above his heart. 

Then she cups his face in her hands. “I’m sorry you were hurt, but I’m glad you survived.”

Oliver blinks rapidly, frozen against her for a long moment, and then he basically tackles her to the mattress, which gets a surprised yelp out of her. She wriggles a bit, opening her legs until he settles between her thighs, most of his weight on his forearms. She brings her knees up in invitation. 

“Felicity,” he says, pressing his cock against her sex, bumping her clit and making her gasp. 

She doesn’t answer out loud, simply reaching between them for his cock. He drops his head to her shoulder, licking and sucking the skin under his mouth as she grips him. She brings him to her entrance and presses a kiss to his temple.

Oliver thrusts in, getting moans out of the both of them. Felicity can tell by the way he’s already moving a little recklessly inside of her that he’s at the end of his rope. She runs her palms along his chest, and she can see the scars now, and she wants to wrap him in cotton to keep him safe, but then he shifts, pulling one of her legs up to her chest, and he hits her so deep that her vision whites out. She leaves one palm against his abdomen, because the feel of those muscles working as he fucks her is so incredibly hot. 

She slips her free hand down to her clit, bringing her hips up to meet him. She’s stunned to realize it won’t take very much more for her to come. He’s impossibly sexy, and something about the two of them together is endlessly combustible. She wants to see him lose control, so she leans up and kisses him, hot and messy, and then orders, “Let go.”

He hesitates, just for a minute, and then he’s slamming into her, the bed moving with each thrust. She whines something unintelligible, presses two fingers against her clit, and comes. Oliver follows quickly, while she’s still mostly overcome with her orgasm, but she feels him pulse against her, groaning loudly.

She makes herself open her eyes, and she swears, just the sight of him above her, jaw clenched in ecstasy, the cords of his neck standing out, his ab muscles clenching rhythmically -- it draws out her own orgasm. 

Moments later, Oliver slumps onto her, his arms shaking a little as he holds his weight off of her. Felicity taps his shoulder. “Roll over?”

He obliges, pulling out of her with a groan before he flops onto his back, tugging her against him. She snuggles against him, their sweaty skin plastered together. When she kisses his shoulder, he tastes salty, and she grins. “That was good,” she says.

Oliver huffs a laugh. “Just _good_?”

She nips his skin. “You fucked my vocabulary out of me,” she says. And when she can practically _feel_ him preening beneath her cheek, she slaps him lightly in the ribs. “Temporarily.”

“Still,” he says, and, yup, he sounds totally smug. “I’ll take it.”

Felicity can’t seem to stop smiling, even as she places her palms on his side and pushes him. ”Go clean up.”

He rolls out of bed, giving her a really good look at the toned muscles of his back and the inviting curve of his ass. She sees the scars, too, as he pads into the bathroom to dispose of the condom, but she doesn’t let herself dwell on them. 

Moments later, he strolls confidently back towards her -- and why wouldn’t he, she thinks, feeling another buzz of lust hit her just at the sight of his incredible body. He joins her in bed, gently pressing a washcloth between her legs before tossing it behind him. 

She rolls her eyes. “Thanks.”

He shrugs carelessly. “I’ll clean up later.” He settles on his side, head propped up on one hand, the other settling on her abdomen. “You realize it’s only like 8:30?”

Felicity flushes, remembering their abrupt exit from Laurel and Tommy’s reception with sudden clarity. “Right,” she says. Then she frowns. “Actually, are you hungry? Because I didn’t really eat and--”

“God, yes,” he interrupts, nodding. “Can we order in?” he asks. “I don’t have any desire to get out of your bed tonight.”

She grins up at him. “I just so happen to be an _excellent_ placer-of-delivery-orders.” 

He laughs and leans down, kissing her soft and slow, while the hand on her stomach eases up, cupping her breast. “Felicity,” he murmurs, pulling back just far enough to meet her gaze. “Will you please go out with me tomorrow morning?”

Felicity blinks, ignoring the warmth in her chest from the tone of his voice. “You mean like a date?” she prods, quirking a skeptical eyebrow at him. “In the morning?”

“Exactly like a date,” he confirms. “In the morning. Say yes.”

She doesn’t have to consider his questions very long. “Yes,” she agrees, “but I should warn you that I may be using you for the breakfast food.”

He huffs a laugh. “Understood.” Oliver leans down, kissing the swell of her breast. “I’ll have to see if I can persuade you to use me for something else.”

Felicity laughs, rolling onto her side so they’re pressed together. He lifts his head, leaning in for another kiss. She smiles against his lips. “Well, I mean, the diner down the street has _really excellent_ omelettes, so you're gonna have to put your back into it.”

The wicked grin on his face should have been warning enough, but Felicity is completely unprepared when he says, “Oh, we’re not going there. You’re going to be my plus-one for the wedding party’s Sunday brunch.”

Felicity freezes against him, eyes wide. “No,” she says, “no, no, no--”

“Too late,” Oliver says, pressing kisses to her neck, “you already agreed.”

She flops onto her back, and he follows her, his stubble scratching against her collarbone. “Oh, my God,” she whines, “that’s going to be so much worse than the wedding.”

END


End file.
